


never wanted you to steal my heart

by shoulderbladesarewings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Growing Up Together, Jealous Harry, Jealous Louis, Jealousy, M/M, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoulderbladesarewings/pseuds/shoulderbladesarewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The grass was so green and the sky was so blue, when did the colours go away, when did the snow stop, when did Harry’s eyes become stars? Pink and white marshmallows roasted brown on candles; green and blue bruises appearing magically on their legs and arms, tender to the touch; sunburnt skin and bleached-blond hair and everything was so goddamn bright and beautiful.</p>
<p>Harry and Louis have always been a pair- joined at the hip since the Styles family moved into town when Louis was at the tender age of 5. Somewhere along the line, Harry's feelings develop into a more-than-platonic kind of love, especially when Louis gets his first long term girlfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never wanted you to steal my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suzerainty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzerainty/gifts).



Sometimes, Louis wishes he could remember a time before he’d known Harry. One day out of the five years he spent without knowing he existed. He wishes he could remember what it had felt like, to not have him around and to not even know he was missing; spending every day in ignorant bliss of the boy who he now needs so badly it’s unthinkable to spend a few hours without at least a text or a touch.

The furthest back Louis remembers is the day they met, and that doesn’t count. It was a snowy morning, back when it still snowed in January instead of mild sun and pouring rain all year round.

(he’s sick of it, he really is, everything’s so fucking grey. His childhood was a wash of white and gold and burning green. He blames global warming. And himself, because he blames himself for everything)

The car and the moving van pulled up outside his house. He was sitting by his bedroom window, breath misting on the cold glass as he pressed his nose against it. His parents were still asleep: for once he hadn’t bounded into their bed the minute he woke up. For some reason, he remembers, he wanted this moment to himself. As if he knew that it would be the first moment of the best years of his life.

A woman stepped out of the car by herself, wrapping her coat tight against the bursts of blazing cold. She was young and lovely, with dark hair clipped back and blue eyes, like Louis’s. Louis felt a pang in his chest at her solitary figure, his warm heart aching to go and give her a cuddle. She looked a little bit sad, but maybe that was just the wind forcing tears from her eyes.

She closed her car door – and then she went around to the back and opened another one, easing the upper half of her body inside and, after a couple of minutes, withdrawing, with a boy about Louis’s age wrapped in a blanket, his arms around her neck.

Louis smiled, partly because he was glad that she had someone to cuddle after all, and partly at the spark of excitement in his stomach. All the other kids on his street were already teenagers, uninterested in small boys gawping at their skateboards, or girls who wanted to draw glittery pictures and host tea parties for their Barbie dolls. For the first time in his life, Louis might actually have a playmate after school.

Harry always insists that he looked up from Anne’s shoulder that day, and saw Louis’s face in the window. Louis humours him, but he knows it’s not true. Sometimes life just doesn’t work out that perfectly. Louis and Harry’s first moment, Louis experienced alone.

 

*

It’s important to remember, Liam always points out, that Harry is not the be all and end all of Louis’s existence. True when they were five to around twelve they were pretty much each other’s only friends, given that Harry’s effeminate eccentricities – he loved jewellery and pink and Disney movies – made him a target for bullies, and Louis’s habit of beating up anyone who so much as looked at his friend funny led ultimately to quite a long period of social isolation for them both. But they’ve branched out, now. Louis got into football and met Niall, Harry got into art and met Zayn, they both got into music and met Liam…

And then Harry met Luke.

Luke. _Fucking_ Luke. Chiselled and gorgeous and a ballet dancer of all the goddamn things. Harry sketched him for an art class and the rest, they say when they tell this story, smug-faced as they sit on each other’s laps, is history.

It makes Louis sick. Physically nauseous, like swallowing blood. He knows that Harry sees it, and he also knows that he doesn’t care. Couldn’t give less of a fuck. Why would he?

Because he used to care about Louis so, so much. Louis only had to say to him _fringe looks a bit weird_ for his hands to be in his silky hair, ruffling hard before sweeping it back and smiling at him hopefully, to which he’d always respond _beautiful._ Sometimes Louis said it just to see him react. Sometimes he’d take a sick day from school when he knew Harry had plans with his art crew after class, just to see if he’d still appear on his doorstep at 16:30 on the dot with chocolate and a mix CD. Sometimes he’d pretend to fall asleep during a movie or a music marathon, just to peep from under his eyelashes and see Harry watching him, biting his lip, a sigh slipping from his mouth.

And that was dangerous. So Louis would open his eyes. He’d tell Harry to go away. He’d turn away before he could say that word – _beautiful._ He was never supposed to think that Harry was beautiful.

And now he doesn’t have to deal with it anymore. Now he can forget. Harry will never again call him at three in the morning and describe the shape of the water stain on his ceiling, or the gay subtext in the book he’s reading, or the play of light through the blinds on his window. They won’t find each other at school, hanging around by the lockers or the vending machines, and Harry won’t bump his hip against Louis’s as he asks _you alright?_ because he doesn’t care anymore if Louis is alright and why would he? Harry will never look at him like that again, like he’s the universe held together in a sweater and Harry is a child standing outside it, never allowed closer, never allowed to touch.

 

*

But Louis isn’t thinking about that now because he’s going back, the second moment, the day they met for real. Louis’s mum, Jay, had put together a kind of care package with homemade cookies, a box set of _Friends,_ some extra-strength bleach (mould was always a problem in their neighbourhood, the pipes forever leaking so everything smelt of damp) and, at Louis’s insistence, one of his own Lego sets for Harry. She was twenty-three and just as excited as Louis at the prospect of having someone her own age and gender around. His dad, he remembers, wanted nothing to do with it. _You’ll be giving her a bloody spare key, next,_ he grumbled as he watched her mixing the butter and sugar. _Don’t you go offering them anything else._

Louis knew, even at five, that his parents didn’t love each other. Most of the time he actively wished that his dad would leave, and take his cigarettes and whiskey with him. He loved his mum, and felt fiercely protective of her, even though he knew his dad would never hurt her, at least not physically. It was the way he spoke. The contempt in his face. The way he teased her about not going to uni; not working; raising Louis to be _a fag._ He didn’t know what that word meant, but he didn’t like it. Whenever his dad used it, his mum would whisk him out of the room.

The woman from the early morning opened the door, in a messy ponytail and dusty dungarees. ‘Hello?’ she said, her brow wrinkling, one arm stretched across the doorway to prevent access. ‘Can I help you?’

Louis’s mum, unperturbed, beamed brightly, pushing the paper bag into her arms. ‘I’m Jay. Just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood. My nosy son saw you from the window this morning and he tells me you have one too.’

The woman’s face softened slightly and she took the bag. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’m Anne, and I’m sure Harry would love some company, if you have time for a coffee –’

‘Oh, I put some _glorious_ coffee grounds in there,’ Jay interrupted, taking advantage in her well-meaning way of Anne’s moment of weakness to step into her house. ‘And Louis very kindly volunteered to give Harry one of his toys – think it would be alright if they had a play now?’

Clearly dazed, Anne nodded, and Jay deftly slipped the Lego out of the bag and handed it to Louis, who barrelled off up the stairs when Anne automatically pointed towards them.

And Louis remembers seeing him for the first time, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom playing Solitaire, and wearing a tutu, one of those pink puffy ones that Louis’s sisters would later all hanker after when they were his age.

And to this day, Louis doesn’t know why he didn’t find that weird. Why he just sat down beside him and said ‘Hi, I’m Louis and we’re gonna be best friends.’ Maybe he was just too young to really understand binaries and boundaries and ambiguity. That Harry wasn’t like other boys, and never would be.

Or maybe it was the first sign that Louis wouldn’t be either.

But that didn’t matter, then. All that mattered was that Harry turned to him, and his smile was too big for his pale face, and his eyes were as green as Astroturf and he said ‘Cool. I’ve never had a best friend before.’

Louis wonders now when he stopped comparing Harry’s eyes to Astroturf and started comparing them to stars instead.

 

*

Louis’s phone rings. It’s Zayn and he answers, and he can hear how slurred his own voice is, so stupid, so slow. ‘What do you want?’

‘You’ve been drinking,’ Zayn states flatly. He doesn’t really care, he’s never been particularly motherly. He’s that friend who you try to keep from breaking his neck or making himself sick. He and Louis get on well because Louis doesn’t try to look after him either. He wouldn’t have picked up if Liam or Niall had called. They’d be fussing. Trying to fix it. Zayn just says ‘I’ve got some weed if you want it.’

‘Obviously,’ Louis says.

‘Come open the door then.’

Louis stands. The room whirls. He takes in his bare walls, scrap paper hanging from Blu-tack where he’s ripped his posters and Polaroids down. He doesn’t remember doing that. He hopes it won’t hurt too much in the morning.

‘You look like shit,’ Zayn says when he opens the door. ‘Where’s your mum?’

Louis shrugs. ‘Out. Boyfriend. Whatever.’

_Boyfriend._ God. He wants to spit on the carpet.

Zayn leads him back up to his room, one hand on his waist to hold him steady. He rolls a joint with extreme care and takes the first drag. Louis wants it, badly, but he sits on his hands. He still remembers Zayn teaching him joint etiquette: _It’ll come to you. Just wait._

In the meantime, Louis takes another swig from the bottle of tequila. He knows there should be more finesse than this, licking salt and sucking lemon, but he doesn’t care.

He thinks about Harry licking and sucking Luke.

He nearly heaves.

Zayn glances up, his eyes fuzzy. ‘Don’t know if I want to share this anymore. You look gone enough already.’

‘Not gone enough. Give.’

Shrugging, he hands it over. Louis inhales, deeply, holding it in his lungs until he can feel it seeping through his veins, and then breathes out. The air thickens, and his heart slows. ‘Thanks.’

Zayn shrugs again. ‘Niall wanted to stage an intervention. I told him I’d handle it. But I did promise him I’d get you out of your bedroom.’

Louis laughs, just once. ‘And what? Hang out with you? Hang out with _Harry?’_

‘I don’t know the plan, man, I’m just the messenger.’

Zayn takes out his phone and starts to fiddle with it, remaining silent for what feels like five seconds but is probably longer before he manages to put on an xx playlist on Youtube. They lie back and listen, sharing the joint, for what is probably a very long time.

‘You fucked up, you know,’ Zayn says quietly.

Louis lets his eyes close. ‘I know.’

 

*

Harry’s first day at Louis’s school, he wore a blue backpack with Cinderella on it. Louis knew, vaguely, that this was not a good idea but Harry seemed so proud of the bag, purchased just before they left his old home, that he didn’t have the heart to say anything.

At first it was just laughs, but then during English, someone flicked an eraser at Harry’s head and the floodgates opened. The boys started throwing pencils, sharpeners and rulers at him until he put his head in his hands and started crying, which only made things worse. Louis sat very still beside him, clueless as to what he could do. If he touched Harry, attempted to comfort him, what would they think?

It was only after school, when a little gang of the bullies congregated in the playground, stuck out their feet and tripped Harry right over, sprawling in the dust, that Louis decided what he needed to do. By the time their mums had shown up at the school gates, Louis was sitting in Reception with blood on his knuckles, Harry tear-stained but smiling by his side.

All Louis really knows for sure about those young years is that they spent them pretty much entirely side by side. Sleepovers on weekends; barbeques at Louis’s house on Sundays; inviting each other around to tea every night; playing hopscotch in the street and Snap in their bedrooms. When Louis got his first skateboard, aged six, he remembers Harry not wanting to have a go on it, terrified he’d fall, and Louis saying _You won’t fall, I’ll look after you,_ and he _trusted_ him, and he set one foot on that fucking skateboard and it shot out from beneath him and he nearly cracked his head open. And Anne was so scared he’d have a concussion that she rushed him to hospital and they kept him overnight just in case, and yet no one blamed Louis, not even Harry who, when he woke up, smiled sleepily at him and said _you looked after me._

And when Louis was nine and his dad gave him his first cigarette in the back garden while his mum was vacuuming upstairs, and Louis nearly coughed up a lung but his dad said _this’ll make you a man_ and so he finished it, inhaled the whole thing and it became their only connection, the only thing he could do that would make him proud, and he gave Louis one or two every day until his mum found out and finally kicked him out of their house but that was six months later and Louis was already addicted, and he’d take Harry with him to the newsagents to steal packets of them, and even though Harry’s hands would shake and he’d go as pale as death, he never said a word. He never even said a word when Louis smoked them in his room, only opening a window afterwards to shoo away the smoke, although his eyes watered and his chest heaved and one time Louis was waving his hands around and accidentally pressed the lit end against his arm. He wore long sleeves until the burn mark faded, and although he told Anne almost everything, he still never said a word about that.

Louis is forcing himself to remember the bad things because he’s tried not to, for years, tried to push them away so he doesn’t have to admit to himself that his friendship with Harry was always cracked, always imbalanced, and it’s his fault that Harry became so emotionally dependent on him, however much the feeling was mutual. That Harry’s right to cut him out of his life, that he should have done it long ago.

But so many of the memories are happy and that’s worse: it’s worse to think about sharing ice cream on the sidewalk in summer, blowing bubbles and riding bikes in the park and tumbling into drifts of fallen burnt-gold leaves, Harry using up all the tiny tubes of glitter glue on their school projects and smearing it all over their faces in the process, collaborative Christmases after Louis’s dad was gone, opening each other’s presents and nicking mince pies off their mums’ plates. When he thinks of Harry, the first word that comes to mind is _warmth._ In the winter holidays they’d sleep in the same bed, and the habit died hard even into their teens. It was Louis who put an end to that.

And remembering that, Louis realises something: they’re not happy memories anymore, really. Because they’re over, and he’ll never get them back. If anything they make him feel much worse.

So he chases that feeling and forces himself to bring back more.

Harry calling him out on cheating at Snap and the two of them wrestling, rolling around all over the floor, tickling Harry until he was crying out. It happened sometimes when they were older, resulting in predictable hard-ons which Louis would ignore. Sometimes, even later, he’d deliberately tease Harry, rutting against him for a few seconds before he pulled back because it made him feel in control, when Harry gasped and ground up into thin air.

Day trips to the beach or the city with their mums, feet up in the backseat of the car as they gawped out of their windows at the sea or the skyline. Scorching sand between their toes, spitting saltwater at each other, cold sandwiches and crisps and beakers of orange juice scarfed down so quick they barely tasted them. Watching cartoons in massive, velvety cinemas sucking sweets, trailing museums to gaze at skeletal dinosaurs and run their hot hands along plasma balls, stealing packets of sugar from cake-aired cafés and later illicitly tipping them down each other’s throats. When they were older they’d go by themselves instead, and Louis remembers one day, when they were fourteen, walking along the streets of London when a gang of boys started yelling at them, words that made Harry turn pink and Louis’s fists clench so hard that the marks of his nails stayed in his palm for hours afterwards. How, the next time Harry wanted to go out to the cinema, Louis persuaded him to watch a movie in his bedroom instead, and one way or another they never went out that far by themselves again.

Endless starlit conversations, whether through walkie-talkies or from parallel bunk beds or sleeping side by side. Harry’s little voice saying _Do you miss your dad?_ and then reaching up to hold his hand when Louis replied _No._ Harry’s slightly pitchy voice, on the cusp of breaking, saying _Do you believe in God?_ and then sighing happily when Louis replied _No._ Harry’s deep, slow voice whispering _Do you ever think you might like boys, not girls?_ and then saying nothing when Louis replied _No._

 

*

When Louis wakes up, Zayn is gone and his mouth is bone-dry. Ignoring the bottle of water Zayn left on his bedside table, he takes another swig of tequila. He hurts all over.

He and Harry fought. Badly. He doesn’t remember how it happened now because his head is spinning, which is exactly what he wanted, but it’s bugging him. There had to have been a trigger because in normal circumstances Harry would never have shoved him hard against the wall and screamed _I hate you! I fucking, fucking hate you!_

He was pretty when he was angry. Louis had never seen him like that before, not full in the face. His eyes were exploding out of his head like cherry bombs. He was as white as a sheet: it made his mouth look bloody. His broad shoulders were tensed and it made his collarbones stand out of the neck of his white school shirt, sharp as blades.

Louis had wanted to kiss him before, but never quite as badly as he did then.

So he knocked him to the floor instead, hands on his shoulders and twisting sideways, so Harry toppled over with his long legs crumpling beneath him. They were standing in the schoolyard and the gravel was damp with rain that had just stopped falling. It took hold of Harry’s shirt, turning it transparent, flecks of dirt embedding themselves into the material. He stared up at Louis, anger replaced by shock. And hurt. Louis remembers the hurt because it made his heart shrivel up into a spit wad. And he remembers the little crimson crosshatch on Harry’s face where his cheek hit the floor.

Louis’s head aches, so he lights a cigarette. The window is open, rain splattering his schoolbooks where he abandoned them on the far side of his bed. He feels lost and alone.

Zayn will be his best friend now. They will skateboard and smoke and die before they’re 25.

Except Zayn wouldn’t do that to Niall. Niall would kiss his cold lips, he’d awaken like Aurora (fucking Harry teaching him the names of all the goddamn Disney princesses), and they’d both leave Louis lying on the tarmac, fuck off to Paris or whatever. Harry and Luke would stumble across his rotting body one day and Harry would just step over his still face and keep walking.

 

*

They grew up, that’s the problem. And Louis’s general existence, but that’s not the point. Everything was fine before they were teenagers and their dicks started to properly come (no pun intended) into play. When Louis started noticing Harry’s thick, bitten lips and lithe, slim body. When Harry started staring at him, chin in his hands, eyes sparkling. When Harry started staring at boys in general, but never the way he stared at Louis.

When a girl in Louis’s Drama class asked him out, and she had curly brown hair and half-green eyes so he said yes and suddenly she was his girlfriend and they were making out on his bed and he started to ignore Harry’s texts in favour of pushing his body against hers. It felt good, but somehow not good enough. He’d come in her hand, and he’d touch her clumsily until she did too, but when she left he’d stay naked and jack himself off to images he forced from his head instantly after.

He told Harry about these trysts, bragging the way other boys did, but Harry wasn’t like other boys. He didn’t high-five him or cheer or ask if Katy had any hot friends. He just listened, eyes blank as he lay on Louis’s now-single bed and stared up at the ceiling.

One time Louis got irritated, punching him lightly in the shoulder. ‘There’s no need to look like someone’s died, Styles.’

‘We barely hang out anymore,’ Harry intoned, ‘and when we do all we talk about is your girlfriend.’

‘So get a girlfriend and we’ll talk about her as well. It’s what we’re supposed to talk about, Harry. We’re fucking fifteen, it’s not normal to be so…’

‘What?’ Harry challenged, sitting up as his eyes began to burn. ‘Say it.’

‘Weird,’ Louis finished, although they both knew that wasn’t what he was going to say. It had been a year since Harry had asked him about boys that night, and neither of them had brought it up since.

‘You know I don’t want a girlfriend,’ Harry muttered, fisting his hands in the sheets so his knuckles went white. ‘You _know_ what I want.’

‘Don’t,’ Louis said. He heard the edge in his voice.

When they were thirteen, Zayn had brought a few bottles of beer to Niall’s house and after they’d drained them they played Spin the Bottle with one of them, the first drunken thing Louis had ever regretted in the morning. When he’d spun it, it had landed on Harry, and he remembered how his mouth was hot with hops and need. Remembered tearing at his shirt, his hands suddenly unanswerable to his brain. Remembered biting into Harry’s tongue, and how there was a small scab on it for the next few days, whenever Harry would cheekily stick it out.

A few months later they got drunk again when someone spiked the punch at a school dance, and Louis and Harry went to the bathroom together and Louis remembered dragging Harry into a stall and snogging him, pushing his knee between his legs, and how this time Harry had tasted like cherries and sugar, but that need was still there, and afterwards Louis’s mouth felt like he’d just gulped scalding coffee.

The next year, it was a proper house party and Louis saw Harry being pinned against the kitchen sink by a guy two years older than them and he’d had his first few shots of vodka so he didn’t even think about what he was doing when he yanked the guy away and pressed his lips against Harry’s before he could see his face. But even when he heard the guy leave, he hadn’t stopped. He’d grinded his hips against Harry’s until they were both shuddering. Harry had tasted like gin and salt. And need, always need.

And the last time, before this conversation, was just before Louis started going out with Katy (or was it just after? He didn’t really want to remember if it was). They’d just been alone in his bedroom, drinking red wine and playing a video game, and Harry had rested his head on his shoulder like he did sometimes when they were drunk and sleepy, and said _You are worth so much more than what your dad wanted you to be._ And this time he didn’t taste like need, when Louis gripped his jaw and licked into his warm, willing mouth. He tasted like self-assurance. And mint, since he’d started chewing gum obsessively.

But that self-assurance scared Louis. It was like Harry had gotten used to kissing him. And that wasn’t right.

‘You know,’ Harry repeated slowly, and then he was crawling over to Louis, straddling his legs and sitting back so he was just resting on Louis’s thighs, his hands braced on the mattress, ‘what I want.’

And then he kissed Louis’s neck and it felt so fucking good, nerve endings igniting all through Louis’s fucking useless body, and then he bit down and Louis fucking _spasmed_ and he was forming the word _no_ in his brain but all his mouth kept saying was _Harry…Harry…Harry…_

And then Harry’s hand was on the zip of his school trousers and if he’d waited just a little longer, traced down Louis’s chest, unzipped his shirt, Louis would probably have let him get away with it.

But he didn’t wait, and the sudden overdrive into serious was all Louis needed to say _No._

Again, if Harry hadn’t listened, it would have been different. Louis’s body probably wouldn’t have let him say it more than once. But he only needed to say it once. Harry stood up and, blinking hard, he left.

And that was the last time anything happened between them until Louis kissed him, about twelve hours ago in the schoolyard, completely sober.

And…fuck. He knew there was a reason he hadn’t wanted to remember it.

 

*

‘You’re a dick.’

‘Leave me alone, Liam.’

‘Harry told me what happened. You’re a dick.’

‘Took him that long to tell you?’

‘Oddly enough, he wanted to protect you. But he’s upset, and he’s hardly going to talk to Luke.’ Pause. ‘He loves him too much.’

‘Nice subtle aim there, Liam. I get it, he doesn’t love me anymore.’

‘You have to leave him alone, Lou.’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘You pushed him _over._ He’s in bits.’

‘Shut up. What do you want me to do; you just said I’m not allowed to talk to him. Should I send him a fucking flower arrangement?’

‘Why did you kiss him? Seriously, I want to know. Was it a power thing? Trying to get into his head? Did you just do it to fuck Luke over?’

‘Maybe I just wanted to kiss him.’

‘He’s given you a thousand opportunities to kiss him.’

‘How would you feel if Sophia was dating another guy?’

‘You know what the difference is? I started dating her _before_ that happened. Because I’m not a massive fucking idiot.’

‘Oh yeah, you’ve got me pinned right there, Liam. Congratulations. I bet it’s _so_ hard for you to like girls.’

‘Three of your best mates are gay. That’s not an excuse.’

‘I’m done with this conversation.’

‘He was crying on the phone to me.’

‘Fuck off, Liam.’

‘You know what the worst part is? He asked me to call you. He wants to know if you’re OK.’

‘Tell him I’m drunk as hell and I want to jump out of a fucking window.’

‘Bye Lou.’

‘Bye.’

 

*

Ironically, the reason Liam is so assertive nowadays is because of Louis. When he and Harry first met him, he was skinny and pretty and he had Justin Bieber hair. Now he looks like a guy in a Madonna music video. It’s unsettling. His makeover was his own doing, but his personality renovation was definitely Louis. Nothing intentional. Louis just encouraged him to stand up for himself a bit more. Talk to girls (in a non-creepy way). Abandon the school choir and start a band. In fact, he takes full responsibility for Liam’s relationship with the gorgeous, heretofore unattainable, Sophia Smith.

So he’s kind of pissed that Liam’s so firmly on Harry’s side in this. Harry pushed Louis too. If the wall hadn’t been there Louis would have fallen over.

In his defence, he thought Harry wanted him to kiss him. It was what he’d apparently been wanting since they were kids. He thought he was giving him what he wanted.

That’s a lie.

Harry started dating Luke a year ago, when they were sixteen. Louis was happy for him, conceptually. It was when Luke started hanging around with them that things went wrong.

And the thing is that Louis couldn’t explain because Harry had asked him, specifically him, before the first time he brought Luke to Liam’s house for their movie night. They’d been sitting in Harry’s room, the two of them, watching _Aladdin_ because Harry never really grew out of Disney and Louis liked to indulge him, although he’d never admit it, and Harry said, seriously, ‘Would it be OK if Luke came into the group?’

Louis’s throat dried up. ‘Why are you asking me?’ he croaked.

‘Because you’re my best friend. Like, in the world. And I care what you think. I want you to like him, and I know that’s not going to happen if I force him into the fold too soon. So. Is it OK?’

Louis scoffed, staring straight ahead. ‘You don’t need to ask, Harry.’

‘You never ask me about him,’ Harry said quietly.

‘What do you want me to ask?’ Louis wasn’t even thinking about his hands when he registered lighting a cigarette, putting it to his mouth, drawing deep. ‘Whether it feels good when he fucks you?’

Harry flinched as Louis breathed the smoke out a little too close to his face. ‘Why do you have to do that? Why do you have to make everything…wrong?’

‘You know why. I don’t get it.’

‘I’m not asking you to get it. I’m asking you to be fucking nice to my boyfriend. OK?’

‘Fine,’ Louis said, and then he stood. ‘I’m tired. I’m going home.’

‘Bye,’ Harry muttered.

But Louis found his old walkie-talkie later that night, the ones they always kept stocked with batteries for old times’ sake, and he clicked the green button and said _I’m sorry. Bring him. I’ll be nice. Over._

And Harry’s sweet, low voice came crackling back. _You’d better be, Tomlinson. Over and out._

Louis was nice, he remembers, but he smoked like a fucking chimney that day, getting through two packs – by his twentieth even Zayn looked worried. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Harry spent the entire time lying in Luke’s arms, a lazy grin dripping from his face like syrup, and he didn’t even seem to notice that Louis was falling apart.

But he must have, because at the end of the night he kissed Luke goodbye and walked Louis home, lying him down in his bed and clambering in with him. For once, Louis didn’t protest.

‘I really like him,’ Harry whispered, his eyes glowing in the dark like fireflies. ‘And the thing is, I think he likes me even more. And…I like that. It’s nice. Being liked.’

_Don’t,_ Louis wanted to say.

_I do like you,_ Louis wanted to say.

_Please don’t bring him again,_ Louis wanted to say.

Instead, he said, ‘If he likes you more, aren’t you stringing him along?’

Harry paused. Then he replied ‘Do you care?’

‘No,’ Louis said.

Harry softly kicked his leg under the covers. ‘Then mind your own business. Anyway, love takes a while to take hold.’

Louis swallowed, the sound enormous in the dark bedroom. He could feel the heat of Harry’s body beside him. He swore he could see the reflection of his green eyes in the ceiling. Katy had broken up with him two weeks ago, when he’d whispered Harry’s name in her ear. ‘How long does it take to leave?’

Harry sighed slowly, turning away from him. There was a break in his voice. ‘Jesus, Louis. When are you going to let me go?’

 

*

Niall comes around with a brown paper bag of McDonalds. While Louis’s preoccupied reaching for the chips before Niall can scarf them all, he grabs the bottle of tequila and rolls it under the bed, far under where Louis can’t reach. ‘There. Zayn said you were reeling.’ He nods at the food. ‘Get that down you, you’ll feel better.’

Predictably, it’s a staggering amount of food, but the hot, salt-drenched smell makes Louis realise that he’s starving, and for the next ten minutes he eats solidly, pushing chunks of chicken and bites of burger and skinny chips into his mouth until his stomach feels as tight as a drum.

Niall talks, with his own mouth full, as Louis eats. ‘Really bad time to figure out what we’ve all known for the past four years, Tommo. And you seriously could not have picked a worse way to go around it. I mean, I know they say boys push you over if they like you but we’re a little too old for that, don’t you think? Plus Luke is fucking ripped. Watch he doesn’t beat you up.

‘I’m sorry, Tommo. I think you’re too late, honestly.’

Louis is crying into his chips like a fucking divorcee in a Judd Apatow movie. The lump in his throat is so big he can’t even swallow past it. His eyes are wet and stinging, and he feels so fucking empty inside. And he has heartburn. Or maybe heartbreak.

Niall rubs his back gently, even as he uses his free hand to steal the rest of Louis’s burger. ‘You’ll be alright, mate.’

Louis doesn’t want to be alright. He wants Harry. ‘I want Harry.’

‘I know, Tommo.’

‘I want Harry,’ he repeats, and now he’s crying properly, ugly as shit, tears and snot and saliva, and all he can think about is how it was always Harry who cried when they were kids, and after Louis had cuddled him and told him a few jokes he’d look at him, face still damp but stretched with a smile, and say _Everything’s better now._

Louis hasn’t cried in front of Harry for years. He hasn’t cried for years, but he’s sobbing now. It’s like when he and Harry used to duck each other in the sea and the saltwater would go everywhere; up his nose, in his eyes, in his mouth. He’s drowning in his own pathetic misery. He just wants Harry. He just _needs_ Harry.

‘OK,’ Niall murmurs, after a few minutes. ‘I’ll get Harry. Liam won’t like it, but…I’ll get Harry.’

Louis doesn’t say anything. He knows that Niall knows that he owes him one. Again, he’s the reason that Zayn and Niall got together, about a year ago. He knew that Zayn was too quiet and Niall too awkward to ever actually talk about their feelings for each other, so he got them slightly drunk and then locked them in the cupboard under his stairs for a couple of hours (it was only going to be one, but when he put his ear to the door he heard noises that indicated that they were both happy and quite probably naked, so he left them for another). On their anniversary last week, Niall sent him flowers.

Louis gave them to Harry, not because he was trying anything, just because he knows that Harry likes flowers. They were big daisies, pink at the tips. When he brought them around, they sat in Harry’s room and Harry took one out of the bouquet, methodically picking off the petals one by one. _He loves me…he loves me not…he loves me…he loves me not…_

As he plucked the last petal, he gave Louis a big, shining smile. ‘He loves me.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ Louis said. ‘He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?’

‘Mmm,’ Harry replied, turning the last petal over and over in his hands. The white ovals littered his lap, and Louis remembered how when they were younger they could spend an entire day making daisy chains: crowns, bracelets, necklaces, anklets. He remembers adorning Harry with dozens, until he looked like Ophelia – her last image, when she’s drowned herself in the lake.

Louis blinked that memory away. ‘Luke ever buy you flowers?’

‘He bought me roses for Valentine’s day. And sunflowers for my birthday.’

Louis blew up his fringe irritably, only partly a tease. ‘Daisies not good enough for now, Styles?’

‘It’s not about the flower,’ Harry said simply. Quietly, he added, ‘Why are you giving these to me, Louis?’

‘Because Niall gave them to me and I don’t like flowers.’

Harry smiled, but it was small and a little shaky. ‘Exactly.’

‘Hey.’ Louis nudged him, hiding the ache in his heart behind a mischievous grin. ‘What’s better, a boy who brings you flowers because you’re dating, or a boy who brings you flowers anyway?’

Harry shifted away from him, shaking his head. ‘The boy who got up the guts to be my boyfriend in the first place.’

‘Harry –’

‘You have to _stop,_ Lou, please.’ His voice cracked in his mouth like candy. ‘You only want me because I’m taken. It’s not enough. It’s like…when we were kids, and you stole my favourite blanket, just because I liked it so much. But you never did anything with it, did you? I found it under your bed when we were playing hide and seek.’ He was pale as death, as if he was telling Louis his most shameful secret. ‘And I didn’t say anything, because…I wanted to make you happy. Even if it meant less happiness for me.’

Louis felt like his stomach was trying to eat itself. He hadn’t known that Harry knew. He’d never have dreamed Harry would have gotten it so, so wrong. ‘I didn’t take it because you liked it,’ he croaked. ‘How could you think that?’

‘Why, then?’ His green eyes were glittering with tears. ‘Why did you take it?’

‘Because,’ Louis mumbled, ‘it smelled like you.’

They were six, and summer – a summer consisting of a constant sleepover – was over. And Louis didn’t want to go back to an empty bed, unsure now whether he’d even be able to sleep without Harry near him.

He didn’t want to find out. He stole the blanket and slept like a baby, keeping it near him up until he was ten and started to smoke cigarettes in his room. He was so careful, but the smoke clung to the thick blue wool like fingernails and he had to fold it up, slip it under his bed, and learn to sleep alone.

He told Harry this stupid, sad story, blushing like an idiot at the idiocy of it all.

As he came to the pathetic conclusion, two tears slid down Harry’s face, leaving a clear glitter glue trail. ‘I would have given it to you if you asked.’

‘But then I would have had to tell you I needed you.’

Harry pulled his knees up to his chest, running his fingers through his hair as he stared down at his feet. ‘Do you know,’ he whispered, ‘how much I wanted you to need me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Louis muttered. He felt so stupid, so small. ‘I’m sorry, Harry.’

Harry sighed. Then he reached out, gently placing his hand on Louis’s wrist. ‘I know.’

 

*

‘Hi.’

Louis looks up. He’s not crying anymore, not really, but tears are still sliding down his face, which stings with shame when he takes in Harry standing in his doorway, face still grazed and glass-green eyes ringed with purple, wearing a grey hoodie over his school uniform.

Quickly, Louis wipes his eyes, pushing the McDonalds’ bag off of his bed. Somehow, he still wants to pretend that nothing happened today; that everything is alright, even though the fact that Harry’s here alone means Niall must have told him how bad the situation was. Harry doesn’t look angry, or irritated, or smug. He looks concerned, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets and his eyebrows creased.

‘Hi,’ Louis says, because he can’t think of a better reply.

Harry half-smiles, but it fades almost instantly. He takes a step closer, letting the door swing shut behind him. ‘Niall said you…wanted me to come.’

‘Yeah,’ Louis says quietly. ‘I…I needed you, Harry.’

He doesn’t smile, but he takes another step. He looks beautiful, Louis thinks hazily at the back of his mind. Like an angel. Like a song. Like home. ‘What do you need me for?’

Louis hesitates. ‘To make me better.’

Harry’s body seems to cave a little bit. Slowly, he kicks off his shoes. For a second Louis’s waiting for him to remove his shirt as well – but he just sits himself down on the bed next to him and then lies back on the pillow, slipping his hands behind his head.

Hesitantly, Louis lies down beside him, their bodies parallel. He breathes in deeply, so deep it makes him dizzy. Harry smells like buttered toast and orange squash and _warmth._ It’s such a shock to Louis’s system that he starts shaking, all over, because Harry’s sheer heat and the fact that he isn’t touching him right now makes him feel freezing.

Harry must hear his teeth chattering, because after a beat he shifts closer and wraps his arms around Louis, cradling him. It’s strange, Louis thinks, how much bigger Harry is than him. Skinnier, sure, but taller by half a foot, with huge hands and arms long enough to wrap around Louis twice. Louis’s never told him this, but he fucking lives for Harry’s hugs, and the fact of him holding him now is so overwhelming that he feels himself start to cry again, shuddering and gasping in his arms.

‘Ssh,’ Harry murmurs, tightening his grip. Louis can’t deal with how sweet his skin smells under his shirt: like vanilla and coconut oil. ‘It’s okay, Louis. I…I broke up with Luke.’

(It was partly because Luke was so much more attractive than Louis. He had a fucking six-pack, for Christ’s sake, skin the colour of honey and a jawline like a knife. And he was _nice,_ too, no sharp edges, funny and genuine, he threw all Louis’s sandpaper abrasions into focus, he would never have lied or sniped or shoved, he was fucking perfect)

‘Why?’ Louis manages to get out, past his humiliating tears.

Softly, Harry kisses his forehead. ‘Because I want you to be happy. And you don’t want me to be with someone. You need me. And I’m gonna be here until you don’t need me anymore.’

That…doesn’t sound right. For a moment, Louis can’t put his finger on it.

(Zayn’s always telling him he’s too guarded, Niall, that he’s too cynical, Liam, that’s he too mean. They don’t seem to understand that these are all side-effects of self-hatred, of a shitty parent and twisted genetics. He tries to be open, happy, kind, he _is_ like that inside, past all these razor layers, but only Harry can ever really get to that side of him and even then it’s at a price. For every piece of his heart he gives Harry, he has to give him a piece of his darkness too. He’s lost so much of himself to this boy that he can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. He’s pretty sure he gave up all his good pieces long ago – but still Harry stayed, still he kept sucking out the darkness. Soon enough, Louis knows, there’ll be nothing left of him at all except what Harry has – and everything he’s given him in return)

_Until you don’t need me anymore._

‘Hazza,’ he says, looking up to meet his eye. ‘I’m always going to need you.’

Harry looks down, but not at him. Away, to the duvet cover. ‘Yeah, well, let’s just say when you get another girlfriend, I’ll be allowed to date, alright?’

_Girlfriend? What?_

(How do people know when they’re in love? Zayn and Niall say they are. Liam and Sophia say they are. All four of them say he’s in love with Harry, but how do you know? Where does friendship end and love begin? Maybe it’s in the hands. Fingers lacing together, that’s love, isn’t it? How could anyone ever have thought it had to be limited to one combination of bodies? He’s never held Harry’s hand)

‘Harry,’ Louis says, genuinely bewildered. ‘I’m gay. I’m your goddamn boyfriend.’

Harry’s eyes snap to his, blank with shock. ‘You what?’

‘I’m your boyfriend,’ Louis repeats, blinking back the rest of the tears. ‘If you want me.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Harry croaks. ‘If I _want_ you?’

It’s Louis’s turn to look down. ‘Look, I know, I’ve been an arsehole and I don’t blame you if you don’t like me anymore but I promise, Haz, I’ll never, ever hurt you again, I went crazy because I…because I love you, and –’

And he cuts himself off because _holy shit_ that was not supposed to come out like that, he literally just played all his cards at once, and _fuck,_ there’s want and then there’s need and then there’s everything else, dating and dinners and sex and safety and fidelity and forever and _then_ there’s love, Jesus, how badly has Louis just fucked all this up –

Harry’s mouth slams against his like a car door.

Louis remembers getting his fingers caught in one when they were ten, and how Harry held an icepack around his hand for hours just so he could share in the numbness.

Harry presses pecks all around his lips before dipping his head and licking into Louis’s surprised-slack mouth, his technique expert, his hands doing things that make Louis’s blood fizz like sugar-thick soda.

They used to drink that even though their mums didn’t like it; when Louis stole his cigarettes he’d slip a bottle into his bag and they’d take alternate swigs while they sat on a park bench, and – how is he just remembering this now – one day when they were ten Louis said he wanted to try something and he took a mouthful of the cola and kissed it into Harry’s mouth and it dribbled down their chins but Louis couldn’t write it off as a failed experiment because Harry’s eyes were sparkling like stars, and that was the first time they kissed, even though he tried so hard to kick it from his mind when he told his dad about it, relaxed from their evening cigarette, and he smacked him around the head so hard he saw stars of his own.

Harry palms at Louis through his jeans, his hand strong and sure, and Louis makes a noise that can’t really be excused as anything other than whimper, and ‘Good boy,’ Harry breathes, ‘such a good boy for me’, which should not be half as hot as it is because where the fuck did that even come from, but Louis full-on _moans_ into Harry’s mouth.

Katy was fun, she was his friend, he thought that would translate into something more, like he knew it already had for Harry, and he thinks she always knew, just like he knew that her eyes lit up like slot machines when she talked about her best friend Rose, they never went further than awkward touching, and the day he slipped and called her Harry he remembers she looked kind of relieved, and before she left his bedroom she said _Tell him. He’s obviously gone for you, you know,_ and the next time he saw her in the corridor she was holding Rosa’s hand and Harry was with Luke.

‘Clothes,’ Louis mumbles, scrabbling at Harry’s hoodie, ‘you’re wearing too many clothes.’ And he has waited far too fucking long for this to hold back any longer.

Harry smiles against Louis’s mouth, pushing him away slightly with one hand on his stomach. ‘Is that right, baby? Why don’t you show me how to take them off?’

So Louis fumbles with his own buttons first, nearly ripping them off in his haste, their tongues still rolling together like waves, and when he’s shirtless and Harry is still fully-clothed he tries to do his too, but then Harry suddenly wraps one hand around both his wrists and holds them behind his back, smiling again when Louis whimpers in protest. ‘Gotta trust me, baby. Gotta be a good boy. Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Louis gasps.

(Ice cream fuzzing their tongues and fingernails lined with dirt and making forts out of cardboard boxes, Louis would pretend to get shot and Harry would press his hands against his chest to stem the bleeding, and sometimes when Louis pretended to die he’d softly kiss the corner of his mouth to bring him back to life)

Harry holds Louis’s hands above his head, pressing two fingers under his chin to tilt his head up as he finishes what he started that day in his bedroom, licking and nibbling at his neck while Louis writhes and moans and whispers _Harry, fuck, oh my God, Harry._

Harry returns to his mouth, blunt and forceful, and as he kisses him deeply, biting at his lips and his tongue, he murmurs ‘Look at you, so good, moaning for me.’

And this lack of control is really starting to get to Louis, even though most of him is loving it, and he can’t stop himself biting back ‘Better than Luke?’

Harry stills for an instant, still holding Louis where he is. Louis mentally kicks himself at the look on his face.

Then suddenly, everything speeds up, like a pause and fast forward effect in a music video. Harry attaches his mouth to Louis’s once more and then crashes their hips together, rutting against him hard and fast as he hisses ‘At least I had the guts to date a boy. At least I was brave. At least I let someone love me.’

It fucking hurts, even as all the blood in Louis’s head rushes to his dick, it hurts so much that his eyes start to sting.

(Their mums blasting boybands in the car and they’d sit in the back seat and Louis would pretend not to know the words as Harry sang along, and when they got older they’d share headphones, alternating between Louis’s selection of hard rap and Harry’s old dirty rock, and they’d turn it up so loud they’d give themselves headaches and then Harry would put on some random piano-based ballad and Louis would complain, but it would always make him feel better and when Harry wasn’t with him he’d start to listen to them anyway, whether to come down from a particularly angry track or to help him get to sleep)

‘Did you…?’ he whispers, unable even to word it.

‘Yes,’ Harry growls, grinding slowly now. ‘He fucked me and I bit his shoulders so hard that he bled.’ He pauses, and for a moment the only sounds are his grunts and Louis’s keens and the rustle of material. ‘Had to keep my mouth busy so I couldn’t scream your name.’

Louis cries out, abruptly so close that his vision is sparkling. He can feel it balling in his stomach like string, the image of Harry’s teeth sunk into the boy slamming into him, Louis’s name swallowed back down his throat…

‘Come,’ Harry whispers. His lips are bitten to the colour of blood, his pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost black. ‘Come on, baby, come…’

Louis does, loudly, for nearly thirty seconds. It’s the most intense half-minute he’s ever experienced, even out of the many, many times he’s jacked himself off thinking about exactly this: Harry’s mouth on his; Harry’s hips pressed so close; Harry’s voice mumbling ‘So fucking good, so fucking good for me baby.’

(The grass was so green and the sky was so blue, when did the colours go away, when did the snow stop, when did Harry’s eyes become stars? Pink and white marshmallows roasted brown on candles; green and blue bruises appearing magically on their legs and arms, tender to the touch; sunburnt skin and bleached-blond hair and everything was so goddamn bright and beautiful)

As he’s coming down, he registers hazily that Harry’s let go of his wrists, freeing him, and he’s just staring at him in something like wonder, his eyes wide and glowing emerald green. ‘Jesus, Lou,’ he breathes, the edge gone from his voice, completely open and raw, ‘you’re so beautiful.’

‘Let me,’ Louis mumbles, words escaping him in this blissed-out state as he fumbles at Harry’s crotch. ‘Let me make you beautiful too.’

Harry laughs, throwing his head back in delight – then he freezes, letting his breath out in one shuddering exhalation as Louis unzips his trousers, spits in his hand and slips it inside Harry’s boxers, stroking clumsily along his rock-hard length.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry breathes shakily, resting his forehead against Louis’s, his eyes wide open to watch the intense concentration in Louis’s eyes as he keeps gently tugging. ‘Where have you been all my life?’

Louis doesn’t answer, because _right in front of you_ sounds far too cheesy. He strokes Harry until he comes with a long, low moan, and then he absently sucks his fingers into his mouth to clean them off, while Harry watches with his eyes practically crossing.

And then they kiss for a while longer, change out of their sticky clothes into Louis’s jeans (Harry’s hips are too skinny for them to cling to so they end up halfway down his arse) and T-shirts, and play a video game.

And nothing’s changed, really, except when Louis wins and sets into the inevitable round of taunting, Harry just shuts him up with a deep, slow kiss.

‘Louis?’ he says, when he eventually pulls back, Louis still subconsciously mouthing for more. ‘I love you too.’

And that’s good to know, but quite frankly Louis’s kind of distracted by the fact that Harry’s starting to remove his clothes again.

 

*

Everything’s OK after that, really. Harry and Louis become HarryandLouis, a single entity, just like ZaynandNiall and LiamandSophia, and the six of them hang out and watch movies and play drinking games just like they used to. Nothing changes, nothing ends, but Harry and Louis share a bed and snog each other until the small hours, and they start saying things like _I love you_ and _when we get older_ and _I love you more._ Jay and Anne don’t show a flicker of surprise when Harry and Louis tell them they’re dating, but Jay leaves a handful of condoms on Louis’s bed which neither of them bring up but which go to good use. Louis still smokes and Harry still watches Disney (and sometimes, just for Louis, he’ll wear this really pretty pink lipstick he’s apparently had for about a year, and for his birthday Louis buys him a few other shades because he looks so nice in it) and they’re really the same as they were when they were kids.

In February, a few days after Harry’s birthday, it snows, and although only a few centimetres of it stays they wrap up warm and go for a walk, enjoying the crunch beneath their feet and the thick white clouds of their breath.

‘I remember,’ Louis says, gripping Harry’s hand tight, ‘the first time I ever saw you. You were asleep and I couldn’t even see your face, but I knew you were going to be the best thing in my life.’

‘I’m telling you,’ Harry protests, like always. ‘I wasn’t asleep. I _remember_ looking up and seeing your face.’ He smiles shyly, flushed cheeks and shining eyes, his hair curling up from under his woollen hat. ‘You know why? I remember thinking your eyes were like the blue Slushies you get at cinemas.’

Louis rolls his eyes. But maybe, he admits to himself, memory isn’t the most accurate way to measure life. Maybe you just have to live in the moment.

So he kisses Harry right then and there in the road, fuck whoever sees, and he tastes like hot chocolate and apples and cinnamon. And self-assurance.

And it’s the best taste in the entire world.


End file.
